


sketch lecture room & library

by spock



Category: The Gentlemen (2019)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Banter, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Exes, Inappropriate Erections, Inappropriate Touching in Public, Jealousy, M/M, Mind Games, Possessive Behavior, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:41:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28141053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spock/pseuds/spock
Summary: Fletcher’s always had an imagination on him.
Relationships: Fletcher/Raymond Smith, Implied Mickey Pearson/Raymond Smith
Comments: 5
Kudos: 30
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	sketch lecture room & library

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sierra_roe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sierra_roe/gifts).



Entertain, Michael'd said. Keep him busy. Occupied, like. 

Fletcher's knee presses against Raymond’s beneath the cozy little table they've been given, clearly laying the groundwork for whatever game he's got brewing. Raymond gives him an unimpressed look over the top of his menu, staring for a long moment.

They've gotten five Lords under Michael’s belt, but nobody's ever been able to accuse Michael of lacking vision. It just so happens that a certain Northern so-and-so with a title is in the West End for the evening. Seeing as executing Michael's vision stands as Raymond's fucking raison d'etre, it's his business to know the general direction Michael's aspirations are blowing; wouldn't you know it, Michael had perked right the fuck up when Raymond passed along the news.

Phone call here, there, the right palms lined and pockets greased. They'd had themselves a reservation within the hour. 

And then, like a case of the house and fucking trap, who other than that noncy bastard Fletcher himself was to be found sitting in the middle of the dining haul, already chatting up the sommelier by the time they’d passed over their jackets to the coat check? 

Thus the entertaining. 

This being his fifth go-round, Raymond knew what he was on about. He’d booked a private room for Michael and his guest, so at least that was one problem solved from the start. He'd excused himself from what was meant to’ve been a nice night out, and made for Fletcher's table instead. 

"Raymond!" Fletcher had no right sounding as excited as he did, considering. "Fancy meeting you here." 

All it had taken was a gesture for the maître d' to have another chair dragged over, Raymond carrying something of a reputation on sight alone. Some poor bastard chased after his boss, hurrying to set an extra place at the table. "Fortuitous, that." Raymond sat down made a grand to-do of settling in for the evening. 

Menu, knee, glare, and here they are. 

"Daily Print paying well these days, then?" The tasting menu's changed since he and Michael were here last. Raymond doesn't need to pretend that he's more interested in giving it a look-see than he is putting up with Fletcher’s nonsense. "So much for the starving artist."

"Only the best for you, my darling." Fletcher's hand inches across the table, coming after Raymond's like a fucking Whitechapel villain in the days of old. "Though I'm duty-bound to point out that you're the one that picked this particular hole in the wall."

Raymond lays his menu down, decided. "What can I say, Fletcher? Can't be clandestine meetings all the time. No matter how much you seem to love trailing after us like some pervert cunt in a bush, tugging yourself silly behind that long-range lens of yours. Variety is the spice of life." 

Fletcher strokes a finger along the top of Raymond's hand where it's spread over his menu on the table. When Raymond doesn't swat him, Fletcher’s face lights up. "Oh goodie," he says. "And it isn't even my birthday."

A lad comes by to take their order, sweet young thing with a full mouth. Fletcher's eyes don't stray from Raymond once. "I'll have whatever he's having." He's petting Raymond's hand outright now, not a shred of fucking shame. 

So Raymond orders the more expensive of the first course options, and says they'll take the rest in whatever order the house intends. 

"That's very naughty of you, Ray." Fletcher's lost his shoe, socked foot copying the rhythm of his hand, grazing against Raymond's calf like a cat in heat. "Not sure even I can sell a dinner for two in a joint like this as a work expense."

"Sounds to me like you're in the wrong business." 

Fletcher grins. "I'd love to learn about yours," he says. "Why don't you tell me all about it, Ray?"

"Ah, ah, ah." Raymond pulls his hand away, wagging a finger in Fletcher's direction. "No talking business on a date, Fletcher. You'll hurt my feelings."

"Wouldn't dream of it, darling."

The first course arrives, tiny little bits arranged artfully on a plate. With it, a nice fat portion of wine. 

"Careful, Raymond." Fletcher's eyes transfix themselves whereabouts his throat, watching intently as Raymond swallows. "I can't promise that I'll be a gentleman if you lose your head."

Raymond licks his lips as he resettles his glass on the table. "Oh, believe me, Fletcher," he makes sure that they're staring into one another's eyes, Fletcher's tinted red by his obnoxious fucking glasses, pretentious cunt that he is. "If it was dining with a gentleman that I was after, I wouldn't be sat here with the likes of you."

Fletcher leans across the table and says, "I'd be blushing, Raymond, if all the blood hadn't gone straight to my cock just about the moment you sat down." He stands, and sure as the fucking sun rises in the east, there's a noticeable line in Fletcher’s trousers, the dirty sodding cunt. "Here." He drags his chair closer to Raymond's side, no mind for the looks all the posh bastards sat nearby send his way. "How's about you let me feed you."

It isn't a question. 

"And in the meantime, you can tell me what's going on in that back room you got all done-up cosy for Mickey and his new friend, ay?"

Fletcher's hand settles high in Raymond's lap, gripping his thigh. 

"You’re hurting my feelings for real now, Fletcher." Raymond pushes his glasses up the line of his nose. "And I'd rather not have you spill anything, if it's all the same to you; this happens to be a new suit. How's about you focus on what's in front of you, hm?"

"Not to worry, Raymond. I've got steady hands."

He has another drink of his wine, letting Fletcher get to feeding him, blissed-out look on Fletcher’s face for being given the opportunity to do so. Eventually, Fletcher goes about eating off his own plate, roasted langoustine by way of Scotland, stained with a bit of terre de sienne to give it colour, nearly at Fletcher's lips.

Raymond leans in, just as Fletcher's bitten it from the prongs of the dainty little forks they've been given, and eats the fucking thing from Fletcher's mouth.

Resettling in his seat, having a thoughtful chew, Raymond enjoys the sight of Fletcher's big fucking mouth hanging open, finally without something to say. He raises his napkin from his lap, wiping at his chin. "That's a good look for you."

Fletcher comes back to himself, shaking his head. "You think that's good?" he says. "Just wait until you've what I look like these days when I've got a cock in me."

"Promises, promises." 

His hand resettles in Raymond's lap, the waiter with the full mouth returned to collect their plates, clearing for the next course. Fletcher feels him up outright in the meantime, fingers curving around Raymond's cock where he's dressed it to the left of his trouser leg. 

"You know I'm good for it, Ray." 

Raymond gives him a sharp look. "Now, Fletcher," he keeps his tone even, knowing that he isn't allowed to have an attitude for the night. "I thought we'd agreed not to talk about that."

It's clear that Fletcher knows he has him, the tips of his fingers bold as they start to coax a reaction from Raymond beneath the table. "Just for tonight, Raymond," he begs. "Don't be cross."

Michael fucking owes him. 

And then because Raymond's always been cursed as far as he and Fletcher are concerned, Fletcher the only cunt in their circle — tangential as Fletcher’s association might fucking be — who's able to read past Raymond's shut-down, fucking goodnight of a poker face, typically more than enough to put even the Queen fucking Mum to shame herself, Fletcher grins and says, "What's Michael Pearson got that keeps you so loyal anyway, Raymond, hm?" 

He leans back into his seat, still keeping a firm hold on what has now become a problem that Raymond will eventually need seeing to, Fletcher knowing exactly how to wind him up in more ways than one. "Handsome boy like you, any fucking criminal worth calling themselves such has to be trying to steal you away for their own machinations. And that's only if you didn't want to strike out on your own."

"Well, suppose I'd have to say that it's the benefits that come with it all, Flecther." The waiter with the mouth returns, laying out the intermediate course. It’s paired with a glass of wine that Raymond knows for a fact goes for nothing less than a hundred forty pounds a glass. "Job satisfaction, and the like."

Fletcher fumbles with the spoon holding his portion, pearled bucato sculpted into a smart-looking mountain, in his haste to get it up to his mouth. 

Raymond watches, smirking as the disappointment sets in on Fletcher’s face when he realizes that Raymond isn't interested in stealing away his food a second time. 

"And are you?" Fletcher asks, sniffing. "Satisfied?"

Raymond feeds himself, tasting the wine. 

It isn't bad. 

"Depends on how you mean the question, I suppose." He swirls his glass, considering. "Anyone else, and I might talk about how I enjoy problem-solving. Bit a servitude bred into me, I think."

Fletcher nods, leaning closer. "I've always said you're the domestic type, Raymond. Saw it in you right from the start." 

He swallows his latest pull, and then drains the rest of his glass, not rising to the bait. "Since it's you though, I suppose it wouldn't be out of turn, would it? Mentioning how good Mickey is at eating my ass?"

"Not in the slightest," Fletcher carries on, always the sort of cunt that enjoys the sound of his own voice, even as the grip he has on Raymond's cock gets firm enough that Raymond gasps, pain flaring behind his eyelids. "Don't fuck about with me, Raymond. It isn't cute."

Raymond lets out a slow breath. 

The third course is on, an impressive little collection from the sea. The waiter won't meet Raymond's eye any longer, clearly having sussed out the sort of couple Fletcher and he make. "When have I ever tried to be cute, Fletcher? You shouldn't be asking questions about things you aren't happy to know the answers to."

Fletcher doesn't say anything as he starts feeding Raymond again, eyes sharp and assessing, clearly looking to see how reliable his source is. Raymond lets him, drinking his wine once Fletcher has nothing left to do but eat from his own plate. 

Their table is cleared again. 

Fletcher's grip on him has lessened. Raymond's never quite minded a bit of pain as far as his cock's concerned, and almost finds himself missing the pressure.

Fourth course, sourced from the land this time: a slab of deer that even Raymond wouldn't roll his eyes at Fletcher for calling yummy. 

He reaches for his knife, keen, when Fletcher opens his mouth, free hand staying Raymond's. "So Michael makes sure that you're seen to?" It doesn't sound like he believes Raymond, which isn't Raymond's problem. 

Fletcher's problem, to Raymond's eyes, is that it's one of those stories that's too good to seem true, which of course likely means that it is. 

Always had an issue with jealousy, Fletcher. 

Most notably where Raymond is concerned.

"How?"

Raymond looks towards his plate, raising his eyebrows. 

There's a brief moment where Raymond wonders if Fletcher truly will force the issue, but then it's broken, Fletcher's hand releasing his. 

He cuts himself a piece of the meat, moaning once it's on his tongue, melting in his mouth. "Fuck me, that's good."

"Raymond."

"Generous, our Michael." He points to Fletcher with his knife. "And good with feedback. That's the thing with Americans, isn't it, Fletcher? So keen on democracy; everybody having their say."

"That seems rather pointed, Raymond." The grip is back, Fletcher practically strangling Raymond's cockhead through the fabric of his trousers. 

Nothing like the brain pumping dopamine through your veins to make an already choice cut of meat out of this fucking world. The room suddenly gets very bright, Raymond's pupils dilating. 

That's one thing he's always had to give Fletcher. The man never failed at getting highs out of Raymond on touch and tone alone, overtaking the general neurosis that usually that has him buttoned-up, tense. Used to be that Raymond thought sticky icky alone could mellow him the fuck out like that. Then he’d met Fletcher.

Raymond licks his lips. "Doesn't mind my needing to do the washing up before we settle in for the evening, if that’s what you’re getting at."

A ruddy sort of flush overtakes Fletcher's neck. "I thought we'd agreed not to talk about that." He sniffs again, rubbing his free hand across his mouth. "And you’re lying."

"Suppose I am." Raymond shrugs, tasting the latest glass of wine. "Easy to wind you up."

"I knew you were." Fletcher's voice is snooty, a cruel curve to his lips. He makes a mess of the meat on his plate, cutting it to shreds before shoveling them into his mouth as he carries on, speaking with his mouth full. "Don't think for a second that I believed you. You need to develop that imagination of yours, Ray. Haven't I always said? No imagination."

"That's me, no imagination.” He nods. “You have always said."

A door opens in the back, Michael stepping out of the parlour. 

Raymond finishes his wine. "That's me done." 

"What?" Fletcher turns, leaning across the table to look around Raymond to where Michael’s private room had been. "No! We haven't even had dessert."

"Couldn't eat another thing, me." Raymond settles his hand over Fletcher's in his lap, prying it away. "Got to say though, Fletcher, no denying that I didn't mind the rough handling." 

Michael wanders over to their table, nodding to Fletcher. "Fancy seeing you here." He watches as Raymond stands, pushing Raymond's chair in for him once he has. "You didn't mention having a date." 

"Wouldn't do to have you getting jealous," Raymond says, fixing the line of his vest. “Now would it?”

Fletcher's eyes cut back and forth between them from behind the tint of his glasses. "See you around, Raymond." 

Michael's hand settles on the small of his back, guiding them to the front. Their coats are brought to them; Raymond helps Michael into his, holding it for him to step into. "How'd it go?" 

"I'd say we're in." Michael stands still as Raymond smooths down his lapels. "And how'd you fare?"

"He still looking our way?" 

"Pretty sure even you stuffed shirts would label that a capital-l look, yes."

"Then I say I did my part." 

"So is there a specific reason it looks like he wants me dead?" Michael asks. "Or is it more of a general sentiment?"

Raymond shrugs into his own coat. "Told him you fuck better than he does, didn’t I?" He fixes his glasses from where they've slid down the brim of his nose, thinking about it. "I suppose that'd make it specific then, wouldn't it."

They look at one another. "Did you, now?" Michael asks.

"Seemed a fun way to past the time."

Michael steps into him. Given the handful of centimetres that Raymond has on him, the way that Michael's got his head angled down, one might be able to argue that he's nuzzling into Raymond's beard, if they were of a mind to label it that sort of way.

Or if they were a right jealous cunt. 

Either-or. 

"Stop making trouble." Raymond tells himself that he isn't fond.

Michael grins at him. "You'll sort it."


End file.
